


Something Good Will Come

by Elfbert



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:59:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfbert/pseuds/Elfbert
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the Sherlock Kinkmeme.</p><p>Someone wanted a snapshot, explaining something of Lestrade's tragic past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Good Will Come

They walked away from the scene of the murders, an unknown constable lifting the tape for them to pass.

 

"What are you going to do now?" Watson asked.

 

"I have a body at Saint Bart's which requires my attention," Sherlock answered, vaguely.

 

Watson nodded, glancing back at the house, with the swarm of blue-suited police officers milling around it.

 

"He seems distracted," Sherlock said, and Watson didn't need to ask how Sherlock had known what he was thinking.

 

Sherlock had even been fairly polite (by his standards) at being called to a case that really didn't require him to work it out.

 

"I might just…" Watson gestured very vaguely, and when Sherlock nodded and walked away Watson himself wasn't even sure if he'd intended to go home or stay and wait for Lestrade.

 

It wasn't anything he could put his finger on, but ever since they arrived Lestrade hadn't been his usual self. He hadn't given Sherlock any time limit on examining the scene, and he hadn't come into the room with them. It wasn't that he seemed shocked – he was a murder detective, Watson imagined very little shocked him – it was as if he wanted to distance himself from the case, yet still, by asking for Sherlock's opinion, ensure he got it right.

 

Sherlock had agreed with the conclusion that the team had come to – a tragic case, but nothing unusual, nothing suggesting hidden motives or other foul play.

 

Lestrade had looked almost disappointed, but had thanked Sherlock and apologised for wasting his time.

 

 

Watson was still trying to figure out the right course of action when Lestrade strode out of the house, giving Donovan orders as he stripped off the blue forensic suit. Watson took his chance.

 

Lestrade was standing in the street checking his PDA, so Watson stopped beside him. "Fancy some lunch?" he asked.

 

Lestrade looked up, surprise obvious in his expression.

 

"It is lunchtime," Watson pointed out.

 

"Uh, I don't know, I should be…"

 

"We'll stop somewhere between here and the Yard," Watson replied. "Just grab a sandwich."

 

Lestrade looked around, noting that Donavan was sorting something out in the boot of her car and the forensics squad were still working. Two plain black vans were just being let through the cordon – the vans from the mortuary, ready to pick up the bodies.

 

"Okay," he replied. "Let me tell Donovan."

 

 

A few minutes later they were walking toward the Tube station, Lestrade with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he were deep in thought.

 

They were on the tube train, rattling toward Victoria before Watson decided to break into those thoughts.

 

"See the match last night?" he called.

 

Lestrade looked up, his eyes wide, and it seemed to take him a moment to work out what he'd been asked.

 

"Oh, yeah. Good game, apart from the fucking diving."

 

Watson gave a small smile. "I only saw the highlights – Sherlock doesn't allow football on the TV."

 

Lestrade smiled at that. "Why doesn't that surprise me? At least you can watch online now, where it won't bother his highness."

 

"Yeah, until he needs some attention, or some tea or his phone," Watson shook his head, but with a smile on his face.

 

The train deposited them at Victoria and they headed out onto the streets. Watson gestured to a sandwich shop. "Here?" he asked.

 

"Sure." Lestrade held the door for Watson, then insisted on paying for the lunch, despite Watson's protests.

 

They sat at a small table in the corner, ripping open the sandwich packets and removing the lids from steaming cups of coffee.

 

"Nasty one, that," Watson ventured.

 

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah. If you ever want to cry off a scene, you can you know. You're not obliged, whatever Sherlock says."

 

Watson shrugged. "I've seen worse. And you lot don't get a choice, do you?"

 

Lestrade gave a small smile, which didn't touch his eyes. "It's our job."

 

"Still, you never get used to that, do you? I mean…well, it's seeing things like that, makes you remember, no matter how fucked up your family is, there's people out there worse off."

 

The deep brown of Lestrade's eyes fixed on him for a second, then looked away. Watson frowned.

 

"I mean, I've got Harry – and we don't get along, there's no secret in that, but everyone else, Mum, Dad, they're just so…normal." He paused, watching Lestrade, who seemed to be looking out of the window. It was, he decided, a bit like talking to Sherlock – you knew that only half of the attention was directed at you, the rest somewhere else entirely. Except Lestrade wasn't normally like this. He was a master at making you feel like the only person in the room. "What about you? Any drunken Aunts, or skeletons in your family closets?"

 

"Did Sherlock put you up to this?"

 

Watson shook his head mutely, and just when he thought he wasn't going to get an answer – and why should he, he thought, he barely knew the man – Lestrade spoke again.

 

"My Dad stabbed my Mum to death when I was ten. Then slit his own throat."

 

Watson almost choked on his BLT. Lestrade was still watching him, so he swallowed and tried to collect his thoughts, which felt as though they'd just been blown apart and scattered to ever corner of his brain. "Shit," he finally managed to choke out.

 

"Nearly got me, too," Lestrade moved, running his hand through his hair to reveal a slightly jagged scar, white and hairless, but undetectable as soon as the silvering hair was pushed back into place.

 

"I…I'm sorry," Watson said, thinking back to the crime scene. The woman in the kitchen, laying in the pool of blood on the expensive slate tiles, the man nearby, his gaze fixed on the body, eyes sightless and glassy. His blood was also marring the tiles, and the tablecloth, spatters all over the bone china and the silverware. "I had…no idea."

 

"Nobody does, apart from Sherlock," Lestrade answered. "And that's only because he can't bear not knowing. He's never mentioned it to me."

 

Watson nodded. "It…what…what happened? To you, I mean."

 

"When I woke up I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what had happened – I didn't really remember, at first, that it had been him. I started walking, it was miles to the nearest house – it wasn't here, it was in France. My Dad was French, a writer – just for magazines, newspapers, that sort of thing. My Mum was a photographer; they met in Paris, when she was working. We stayed there every summer, out in the countryside, away from everyone." He paused, food forgotten, swirling the coffee once more. "Someone found me on the road. I didn't realise it, but I was covered in blood, so they took me to the local gendarme. I sort of knew him, from being there so often, so I told him that my parents were at the house. It was all a bit of a blur from there. I speak French, but it was…confusing. Monsieur Lambert – the gendarme – he and his wife took care of me. After a little while I came back to England, stayed with my Aunt and Uncle."

 

"They cared for you? Adopted you?" Watson asked.

 

Lestrade gave a small smile. "They might have, but I was…disruptive. Trouble. When you're ten it's hard to accept that other kids have their parents and you can't have yours. They had me taken away. Got passed around, foster carers, homes. The only people who stayed with me were Monsieur and Madame Lambert. I used to write, as often as I could. When I was old enough I visited them again. I still do, once a year."

 

"And that's why you wanted to join the police?" Watson guessed.

 

Lestrade shrugged. "He was the only person who seemed to care. It's not like many people could…you know, understand, what had happened. He'd been there – went straight there when they found me. So he knew. We talked about it, sometimes. When I told him he was proud. I mean, really delighted," Lestrade smiled, and Watson was pleased to see it.

 

"I don't know how you do it," Watson said. "I mean, I've seen people blown up, shot…but to see it all here, all the things people do to one another, after…after what happened to you…"

 

Lestrade looked out of the window again. "Just because I couldn't save them, doesn't mean I can't save other people. That's why I need Sherlock. I can't risk one clue going undetected, I can't risk missing something and letting someone kill again. I don't care what anyone says about him, about me, about how he helps on the cases or that he's not a real detective. Working with me, he saves lives, that's all that matters."

 

 

A short while later they continued their journey down the road, walking side by side. To Watson it seemed as if his new knowledge made the world just a little darker, but the two men he shared it with somehow shone more brightly.

 

~Fin


End file.
